Two Faced
by Ghostgirl468
Summary: Not in the sense you would think. A little story influenced by what Molly said to Sherlock in the lab, and about the faces he tries to hide.
1. Sherlock

So I've been trying. I've been trying and trying, so, _so _hard. But siriusly, that finale...I've been in this weird daze ever since it finished and I'll probably still be in a daze by the end of the week, maybe even until series 3. The last ten minutes was just floods of tears, first with the very convincing fact that Sherlock was dead and then (after screaming in happiness that he wasn't) they were tears for John because he just looked so damn _lost_ standing at the grave :( So I've spent all my time reading fan fiction (WONDERFUL fan fiction by the way, you guys are amazing writers) and trying to get my head around it and it still hasn't worked – the only thing left is to actually write something. Bear in mind I'm still in shock, so please forgive me if it's not very good.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock – It's owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Steve Thompson, which is probably a good thing because no one else could have written something that amazing.

- Sherlock -

Some people have two faces. The one they show you, and the one they don't want you to see.

The face Sherlock showed was the one John had complained about that morning – the one that irritated him, the one that meant 'We both know what's going on here'. It was smug, determined, righteous – it held the world in his vision from above and kept them there. It observed from a distance and made logical, clean cut decisions, not ones based on heart or soul. It sneered and ignored Anderson and Donovan's constant remarks about his freakish nature – it rolled it's eyes and proclaimed 'idiot' whenever Lestrade pointed out the obvious. It ignored Mrs Hudson's 'I'm not your housekeeper' and smiled dismissively whenever she went off on a topic that held no relevance to the situation. It stayed in statuesque form for his brother's rare appearances, a bored air following Mycroft's attempts to ask for help without really asking. It kept it's mask on even for John – his John, his flatmate, blogger, only friend.

The face that Sherlock never let anyone see was the truth – it was the one that wanted to confront Anderon and Donovan and ask what he'd done to make them hate him so much – it wanted to congratulate Lestrade when he actually _did_ make a good deduction, and it wanted to let the detective know he was considered a friend – he was one of those Sherlock had 'died' for. It secretly smiled fondly at Mrs Hudson's remarks, and her constant fretting over his well-being – she was the closest motherly figure he'd ever had, and for a moment, this face had won through when he'd found her being held at gunpoint by those American idiots – that was why the window had taking a bashing. Behind layers of disguise and stone and rivalry, it wanted to thank Mycroft for every time he got him out of dead-end situations – it wanted to acknowledge him as the only family Sherlock had.

Most importantly, it wanted to let John know, really know, how much he meant to him. The man was so, so important and Sherlock had never gotten around to voicing it properly, because he didn't know how. There had been a few slip-ups – a few times the second face had shone and he'd confirmed out loud that John was his only friend, and the best he could have ever hoped for. It wanted to never leave the doctor alone again, to have him at his side, running alongside him forever, to keep him watching Sherlock, until the very last moment – he'd asked as much. It wanted John to see how happy he made Sherlock.

There was, it seems, one person who could see both of these faces. One person who, despite her insistency that she didn't, oh so beautifully _did_ count. Molly Hooper, the girl he'd dismissed as someone to use, and hadn't realised how special, how incredibly insightful and brave she was, until the last minute. He owed his life to her, and so much more. Because if it weren't for that one small sentence she'd said to him in the lab that day, then Sherlock really would never have admitted it, not even to himself.

'You look sad when you think he's not looking.'

Standing behind a tree in the cemetery, watching as his only friend in the entire world controlled his tears, saluted the stone and walked away, Sherlock frowned, his stomach twisting into a knot as he remembered Molly's words. John wouldn't be looking at him again, not in admiration or concern or irritation, ever again. Not if he was to be safe.

And yes, Sherlock was sad.

- Sherlock -

Well, thank you very much for reading this far :)

Basically everything that I thought would be running through Sherlock's head afterwards, because there's no way he stood and listened to John's speech at the cemetery and didn't get all emotional about it – he just didn't show it.

So I hope you liked it, and now I'm going to wander around in my daze for another little while and see what else I can think up :) Please, if you liked it or didn't, take the time to tell me why in a review – they're always appreciated.

- G


	2. John

So after getting that through my head I came up with one for John, kind of based around the same line, except this one is a loooooong time after Sherlock's 'death'.

Thank you very much for the reviews by the way :) And for everyone who did read it but kept quiet :P

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own it :( Shame, I really want Benedict and Martin.

Warning: I got depressed writing this, so I really hope it doesn't read too depressing. Might've just been me.

- John -

Some people have two faces. The one they show you and the one they don't want you to see.

The face John showed was the traitor. The one that hid every ounce of feeling and emotion behind a stern, blank mask. It nodded tiredly when Mrs Hudson made tea or asked how the job at the clinic was going. It smiled tightly and waved a dismissive hand whenever Lestrade dropped by to check up on him. It chuckled forcibly at Molly's jokes, her attempts to lighten the dark mood that he carried wherever he went. It remained as blank as a brick wall whenever Mycroft 'abducted' him in a black limousine and met him in some abandoned warehouse to apologise, again and again and again.

Most importantly, it stayed in unwavering respect and refused to tear up, refused to break down, whenever he found himself standing in front of the black marble grave stone with so many words to say, but never saying them.

The face John didn't want anyone to see was the truth. It hid behind the other out of cowardice, mostly, because the things it wanted to do weren't the acceptable things to do. It wanted to ask Mrs Hudson for two cups of tea instead, or where the skull had gone – it had vanished before he'd even gotten back to the flat after that day, and never been seen since. It wanted to tell Lestrade to get lost and ask why he'd ever doubted Sherlock. It wanted to ask Molly why she was trying to laugh when there was nothing to laugh about, and how she'd managed to cope so well when he hadn't. It wanted to take Mycroft by the shoulders and shake him uncontrollably and demand why he'd done it, why he'd destroyed his brother, why he'd betrayed him.

It wanted them all to understand that it wasn't okay – that it would never be okay, ever again.

Most importantly, it wanted to look up unexpectedly one day and find Sherlock standing in the street or waiting outside the flat to be let in or sitting in his armchair, screeching away on the violin, looking undoubtedly alive, and it wanted to curse at him for doing such a horrible thing before hugging him tightly and crying and never letting the man – his best friend – his _dead_ best friend – go. It wanted to tell Sherlock everything. It wanted to talk and say all the things John had never got around to saying. It just wanted him to be there.

For a long time, the truth and the lie had been fighting each other, because John really didn't want to believe it. But one day, 10 months later, the battle finally ended. John returned to Baker Street after discovering that he could no longer remember Sherlock's vioce or his smell, or his sarcastic smile, or that knowing glint in his eyes. He couldn't even remember the face, the one that always used to annoy John – the one he now needed so desperately. To his horror, he found that they were gone, forgotten over time and too much grief. The lie had won. John never forgave it.

- John -

:S

I don't really know. This one seems a little down for me, but I figured this is what John would be like afterwards anyway – he'd just give up. Sherlock was his life, after all, and with him gone...I don't know why Sherlock ever thought this was a good idea.

Oh, p.s. I'm thinking of doing a third chapter, maybe a renunion for when Sherlock finally comes back? Thoughts please :) And pretty please leave a review if you enjoy it :)


End file.
